Chapter One

Summer might float into Seattle, Boston, and Denver on fairy wings kissing the air with promises of happy sunshine and picnics—but in Beauford, Tennessee, it was a different story. It roared in, riding a flame-wheeled chariot, cracking its whip and laughing at heat stroke, ruined crops, and sweat-soaked bras.

Emory Lowell had tried to tell that to the bride, her mother, and eight bridesmaids when they visited Beauford Bend Plantation last winter on their trek through the South looking for a plantation wedding venue. But apparently her warning hadn’t sunk in.

“Kaylee cannot possibly get married outside in this heat!” The mother of the bride waved her hand in the direction of the white marble wedding gazebo where the rows of white chairs were already set up. Emory was pretty sure she saw sweat fly off the woman’s face.

You ain’t seen nothing yet. It’s only ten o’clock. By I Do time at four, it’ll be a hundred degrees.

But Emory didn’t say that, of course. She wasn’t even rattled. She had expected it, was prepared for it like she was always prepared for everything.

“Mrs. Wagman—”

“Florence. Please. We aren’t as formal as you Southerners. Every time I hear Mrs. Wagman I look around for my mother-in-law.” She took a long swig from her water bottle. “Though come to think of it, she’s the only one here I would subject to this heat.”

“Yes. Well. Florence. The heat is intense. And I won’t lie. It will be worse this afternoon. But we have plenty of time. We can proceed with the inclement weather plan and move the ceremony into the ballroom. It won’t be a problem. My staff has done this a hundred times.”

“But then Kaylee wouldn’t be getting married outside! She has always dreamed of getting married outside just like Scarlett O’Hara!”

Had Scarlett gotten married outside? Emory couldn’t remember. Not that it mattered. Apparently Kaylee thought she had.

“Mrs. Wagman. Florence. Have y’all”—she hesitated—“have y’all spent much time in the South during the summer?”

“We have spent no time in the South, in the summer or otherwise—last January being the exception, when we were looking for a wedding site. Kaylee was so set on a plantation wedding. And I have to say, Emory, though Beauford Bend is by far the most beautiful venue we considered, I wish we had chosen the one in Louisiana. It’s on the water so it has to be cooler there. Why did this heat wave have to happen now, of all times?” She fanned herself with her hand.

Tact. Don’t say I told you so. “Actually, this isn’t a heat wave. This is pretty standard. And Louisiana would be hotter and twice as humid.”

Florence’s eyes widened. “You mean you people live like this all the time? It was cold when we were here before.”

Emory nodded sympathetically. “We have seasons—even snow. But summer means business. Now, why don’t you let me have this whole thing moved inside? It will be lovely.”

“Kaylee will be devastated!”

No doubt. This wouldn’t be the first devastated bride Emory had dealt with—and she knew how to deal.

“I have an idea,” Emory said like it was a new thought. “It’ll be much cooler tonight. Why don’t we go ahead with the wedding and dinner in the house but have dancing out here after the cake is served?” Florence Wagman looked interested. “The band can set up in the gazebo. I’ll have the portable dance floor and bar set up. We have large fans that can be brought out. They would be far too noisy, not to mention ineffectual, for an afternoon ceremony, but with the music, they would hardly be noticed. I could have the flowers from the ceremony brought out during dinner. We can turn on the little white lights in the trees.”

“I don’t know. Kaylee had pictured an outdoor ceremony with dancing in the ballroom . . . ”

“And we can certainly go ahead with that.”

Sweat ran down Florence’s neck. She pursed her lips.

“You know what? Kaylee might as well learn right now that she can’t have everything. I, for one, am not sitting out in his heat. Go ahead with that plan!” She turned to walk away.

Emory reached for the button on her headset but Florence Wagman stopped and looked back over her shoulder. “Any chance Jack Beauford is here?”

“No.” That was the only word she had. The mention of Jackson tended to shut her down.

“Any chance he might be coming home? I heard he canceled his tour after his drummer and guitar player were killed in that fire. He lives at the plantation when he’s not on the road, right? A song from him at the reception would go a long way in making Kaylee happy.”

No kidding. Who wouldn’t want a song from a Grammy-winning, heart-stopping gorgeous superstar?

“I am afraid that’s not possible,” Emory said. “This is his childhood home and he lives here when he has to be in Nashville, but he isn’t expected.”

And she hoped that was true; she hoped with all her heart that Jackson wasn’t coming here. She’d been holding her breath ever since she’d gotten the email ten days ago informing her that he was coming home and to cancel all remaining events, pay herself a year’s salary, and vacate the property. Except for security, she was to give all the staff six months’ severance pay and let them go. Security was to be left alone.

She had done none of it, nor did she have any plans to. She had gotten away with ignoring his last directive—the one he’d given her eight months ago—and there was no reason to think she wouldn’t get away with this, too.

That last directive had come right after Amelia’s funeral. Emory’s gut turned with grief every time she thought of losing Amelia, and she supposed it always would. Emory had met Jackson’s great-aunt as a teen when her new stepmother had sent her on whirlwind of self-improvement camps that included a trip to Beauford Bend to attend Amelia’s annual charm school: A Fortnight of Refinement and Training for Young Ladies.

She’d met Jackson that summer too. At the dance on the last night of charm school, he’d given her a moonlight kiss in the rose arbor—but that didn’t make her special. She wasn’t the only freshly kissed fifteen-year-old who’d left Beauford Bend with a crush on Jackson Beauford—though she might be the only one who had let that crush morph into fandom. Not that Jackson remembered any of that and not that it mattered.

What did matter was Emory had loved that time at Beauford Bend as much as she had dreaded coming. Unlike tennis, ballet, French culture, and cheerleader camps, she loved the dancing and embroidery lessons, the formal dining, the learning to pour tea. She loved how Amelia always said, “Honey, there’s no excuse for not knowing how to do something just because you might never use it.” But more than any of that, Emory loved how Amelia had given her refuge when she had no refuge at home anymore with a stepmother who liked to pretend she didn’t exist.

She’d spent the next five summers at Beauford Bend as a volunteer. Those summers with Amelia had made her strong. Though she had kept in touch with Amelia, Emory had not been to Beauford Bend in four years—until two years ago when she wasn’t strong anymore. She had needed refuge again and Amelia had given her a home and put her to work in her business Around the Bend: Elegant Events. It had been ideal—until, at eighty-two, Amelia suddenly died of a stroke.

After the funeral, Jackson and his brothers had agreed to close down Amelia’s events business. Jackson had instructed Emory to fulfill the obligations but not to book any more—and that included the charm school. And she had intended to do that. In fact, she had turned away several bookings. But then the call came from the woman who just wanted a small party for her daughter’s sixteenth birthday. It would be so easy and Jackson would never know it hadn’t been booked before—if he even bothered to ask. And then there was the embroidery guild that had been coming to Beauford Bend for a weeklong retreat for twenty years. Surely that couldn’t be considered a new booking. Besides, it had been three months since Amelia’s death and Emory hadn’t heard a single word from a single Beauford. Gabe was in San Antonio playing pro football. Rafe was riding bulls. Beau was an Army Ranger so it was anyone’s guess where he was. And of course, Lord of the Manor Jackson had an album to promote.

So things had rocked on. Emory continued to book events and she accepted applications for the summer charm school.

It seemed they had forgotten all about her, Around the Bend, and the orders to shut it down. The business paid for itself and turned a small profit. More importantly, the town needed Around the Bend. Not only did Emory hire townspeople to work events, there were businesses like the caterer, limo service, and florist that existed because of Around the Bend.

And then, there was the other reason she couldn’t close the business. If Around the Bend folded, she’d have to leave Beauford Bend, the only place she could feel safe.

She’d begun to think things could go on as they were forever.

And that might have been true if not for the fire at a Jack Beauford concert in Los Angeles two weeks ago that killed two of his band members, three of his road crew, and his manager, as well as over thirty concertgoers. A few days later the email had arrived from Jackson, the email she had ignored. Now he might be coming home.

Of course, he might not. He might be off lording himself over somebody else.

“Can we see his room?” Florence Wagman brought Emory back to the present.

“What? Whose room?”

“Jack Beauford! If you would let us see his room, it would distract Kaylee. She loves him.”

“No.” Emory tried to sound regretful. “I’m sorry.” She didn’t point out that the Beauford brothers didn’t have rooms in the plantation house; they had suites, or apartments, more like.

“I read somewhere he has a whole room for his guitars. Could we see that?”

“I’m afraid not. The family wing is strictly off-limits. It’s their home. I just work here.” Technically, that might be true, but Emory’s heart rebelled at the very thought. Those Beauford brothers seldom returned to the ancestral home where they grew up, while it was her very heart and soul. “But I’ll have a basket with Champagne, chocolates, and some of Jackson’s CDs sent over to the bridal suite at Firefly Hall.” Emory reached for her phone to send herself a reminder when a shriek stopped her short.

“Mama!” It was the bride herself running like she was loaded for bear, robe flying, wet hair falling out of a towel wrap.

“Kaylee, what is it?” Florence said.

“I left the bridesmaids’ gifts at home! The silver compacts!”

“Oh.” Florence’s tone dared to carry an is that all tone, which made Kaylee frown even more. “You can give those to them when you get back from your honeymoon.”

“No, Mama! I was going to give them out when they come to help me dress, during ‘something borrowed, something blue’ time. I have a little speech planned for each one.”

Florence reached to smooth her daughter’s hair. “It’ll be fine. We’ll plan a nice little lunch when you get back. You can give your gifts and make your speeches then.”

“Mama, no! I need to do it today. I have to!”

Florence looked resigned. “All right. There’s no time to go all the way to Nashville. I’ll drive into that little town and see if I can find something.”

Emory did not point out that Nashville was only forty minutes away. She had a better idea. “I might be able to help. We have a very talented silversmith and jewelry designer in Beauford. She does incredible work. I know if I call her, she could bring some pieces out.”

The town of Beauford had grown up around Beauford Bend and another plantation, Firefly Hall, which was now a bed and breakfast. Over the years, Beauford had evolved into a boutique town comprised of artisans and master craftsmen that brought in droves of people seeking handmade one-of-a-kind goods. Still, they were all dependent on each other for their livelihood. Neyland Mackenzie had recently opened her own jewelry shop and would be glad for the business.

Florence frowned. “We spent a fortune on those compacts already. And we need eight gifts. I was hoping for something like Things Remembered.”

“Mama! That would be awful! They came all this way, gave me a party, and bought their dresses.”

Emory smiled and laid a hand on Kaylee’s arm. “Neyland does some very high-end designs but she also makes some lovely little silver bracelets and earrings in the neighborhood of a hundred dollars.”

Kaylee jumped up and down and clapped her hands. “That sounds perfect! And I could give them the compacts for Christmas!”

“And she would bring them out?” Florence asked.

“I’m sure of it.”

“And we’d want them wrapped.”

Emory reached for her phone and scrolled to Neyland’s number. As the mother and daughter walked away, Emory heard Kaylee say, “Why is it so hot out here?”

• • •

“Is this yours?”

Jackson Beauford looked at the backpack the woman held out toward him like it was an alien six-legged cat before gratefully accepting it. He would have boarded the plane without it. It had been a long time since he’d had to keep up with his luggage, a long time since he’d flown a commercial flight. Big stars didn’t fly commercial, keep up with their own belongings, charge their own phones, or buy their own toothpaste. When had he become so helpless?

Helpless. Hadn’t he always been? When had he ever been able to do one damn thing when it made a difference?

Careful to avoid his bandaged right arm, he threw his backpack over his shoulder and made his way down the jetway—alone. He had bought out the whole first class section. He settled into the window seat in the last row and pulled his cap down over his eyes.

“Can I get anything for you, Mr. Beauford?” the airline attendant asked quietly. This wasn’t her first rodeo. She’d seen celebrities before, probably plenty of them.

“I’m hungry. Can I have breakfast?” When had he eaten last? Yesterday, probably.

“I’m sorry, sir. I cannot serve you a full meal until we’re in the air.”

Right. Rules. Not something he usually dealt with. If Ginger had been here, she would have gotten that meal for him or—more likely—made sure he’d eaten before boarding. But his longtime assistant wasn’t here; she was in Aruba convalescing. He had taken her there himself. She’d wanted, begged in fact, to return to Beauford Bend with him. But all he wanted was solitude and at the end of this flight he was finally going to have it. Emory Lowell would’ve had plenty of time to shut things down and clear out by now.

“I can get you a snack—something you won’t need a tray table for,” the flight attendant offered. “A muffin? A piece of fruit?”

“That’s okay. I’ll wait.” That reporter from Twang Magazine should be boarding soon anyway. It would be more polite to wait for her. And he knew polite. Aunt Amelia had made damned sure of that.

“If you’re sure. The other passengers are about to start boarding.”

“Thanks.” He closed his eyes and pulled his cap down farther.

She turned her back on him but stood between him and the aisle as if attempting to block him from prying eyes.

Still, he heard the gasps of surprise.

“Is that Jack Beauford?”

“No. He died in a fire.”

“He did not. That was some of his band . . . ”

He put his earbuds in, cranked up Hank, and closed his eyes. Time passed. Cheating and drinking songs always helped the time go by. It was easy to feel superior to the subjects in those songs since he’d never done any of the former or much of the latter—at least not to excess. Not that he’d ever been in a relationship committed enough where there could have been any cheating. Feeling superior was a whole different big bag of black sin and one he excelled at—that and getting people killed.

He smelled soap and sensed someone was near. The flight attendant wasn’t in his personal space but had stepped near enough to get his attention. She had some wisdom. That was rarer than it ought to be. Maybe he would hire her away from Delta. Then he remembered. He didn’t have any jobs to give anyone anymore.

He popped an earbud out.

“Your guest’s flight just landed. We sent a courtesy transport for her.”

Still getting special treatment. Or maybe not. Maybe they did that for everyone.

“Thank you.” If it was special treatment, it wouldn’t last—not after the world got the message that he was done, that he didn’t owe them a song.

There was a mild flurry up ahead and a woman with strawberry blond hair wearing a conservative, expensive-looking gray dress moved down the aisle like she had a mission. Unless he missed his guess, that would be one Carson Hamilton-Knox of Twang, the magazine that was the bottom line on the Nashville music scene. As she got closer he realized with horror that she was pregnant. Guilt washed over him. He had made a pregnant woman fly all the way from Nashville to Los Angeles, just to turn around and board this flight back to Nashville.

But he hadn’t really made her, had he? No. He had simply stated his terms for granting this interview—the first and only interview he intended to do concerning the fire. And it would be his last interview. Carson Hamilton-Knox didn’t know that, of course, and neither did the world.

She only knew that if she wanted the interview she was going to have to conduct it on this flight. She didn’t even know if he was changing planes in Nashville or staying there. And at the end of the interview she still wouldn’t know that. She wouldn’t have learned anything he didn’t want her to know.

She approached and his good manners made him stand up and take the hand she extended.

“Carson Hamilton-Knox.” Her voice had that cultured West Nashville/Harpeth Academy tone. He would have recognized it anywhere, knew it from his aunt, his mother, and the charm school days at Beauford Bend. Thank God that was over—for him and Beauford Bend.

“Jack Beauford,” he said.

She laughed. “I know.” She wasn’t flirting. He liked that, though she might be the kind he would have gone for, if she hadn’t been married, if she hadn’t been pregnant, and if he had been looking.

Too late, he remembered to remove his cap. “Sorry. Bad manners.”

A bit of surprise washed over her face. “You’ve cut your hair.”

“Yeah.” He ran his hand over his close-cropped dark locks. He still wasn’t used to it. The people he’d paid good money to boss him around had insisted that he keep his thick, straight hair chin length, had said it was sexy the way he unconsciously slung it out of his eyes while on stage. But he wouldn’t be doing that again. “Sometimes you want a change.”

“I understand.” She gestured to the seat beside his. “Should I sit here?”

“Yes. Let me help you.” He took her laptop case while she settled into the seat. She wasn’t pregnant enough that she was likely to give birth on this flight but enough that she had to struggle a bit with the seat belt. She removed a pad and pen from the case.

“If you don’t mind—slide my laptop under the seat, please.” Good. She understood the rules. No pictures. No recording. Just the two of them, a pen, and paper. In return, she had his undivided attention for the entire four-hour flight.

After situating her bag he sat down, buckled his own seat belt, and settled his cap on his knee.

“Why don’t you wear a cowboy hat?” she asked.

This was going to be easier than he thought. He couldn’t believe that’s all she wanted to know. True, people had remarked for years that, unlike most country music stars, he never wore a cowboy hat, but it wasn’t exactly the burning question of the moment. Next she’d want to know his favorite color and what kind of jelly he liked on his biscuit.

“I’m not a cowboy.”

She glanced at his cap. “You’re not a baseball player either.”

“No.” He picked up the cap embroidered with San Antonio Wranglers Super Bowl Champs. “My brother Gabe gave me this cap. He got it on the field when he was named MVP.”

“You have a brother who’s a cowboy, too.”

“I do.” He nodded. “Rafe. He’s a champion bull rider. Maybe if he gives me a cowboy hat I’ll wear it.”

She swept her hair back and turned to him. “Why me?”

“Why you?” What did that even mean?

“Why did you grant me this audience?”

“You make it sound like I’m royalty. Or the Pope.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Not by a long shot.”

“Still, why me?”

He shrugged. “Maybe I like that you didn’t call—that I had to call you.”

“I had no reason to think you’d take my call. You didn’t take my boss’s call, or her boss’s. Or anyone’s from Time, Rolling Stone, The New York Times  . . . I could go on.”

Truth was, he’d known he had to give an interview, that the world wouldn’t rest until he did. Carson was young and new to Twang. He figured he could handle her and so far that was proving to be true. Also, he’d heard she had married her college sweetheart just last year so he figured she still had enough stars in her eyes that she wouldn’t try to screw him in the bathroom.

“I read Twang,” he said. “I think you’re a good writer and you seem fair. I could use a little fair these days.” And he pulled out his stage smile, the one that always got them on their feet, the one that made them throw their thongs onstage.

Carson Hamilton-Knox did not divest herself of her maternity underpants. Thank God. But she did smile back.

She opened her notebook. “Fires aren’t fair, are they?”

Given how this was going, he would not have expected that before they were even in the air, but okay. Maybe they could get this over with and take naps. Pregnant women liked to sleep. He’d heard that. And she had been awake for a long time.

He took a deep breath and began to recite the facts as he had practiced in his head. “A deranged man threw a firebomb onstage and another into the audience. Forty-three people were killed, including my rhythm guitarist, my drummer, three of my road crew, my manager, and thirty-seven audience members. Their names are—”

Carson put up a hand. “Mr. Beauford—Jack. May I call you Jack?”

He nodded, confused. People didn’t usually interrupt him when he talked. Just then the flight attendant came through, checking tray tables and seat belts with all the sights and sounds of takeoff in the background.

Though they’d had to pause, Carson took right up where she left off.

“Jack, I know the names of those killed, all forty-three. I know Mason Patrick started the fire and we’ll probably never know why because he ran to the roof of the arena and threw himself off. Those are the facts, as reported by the authorities. They have been recorded in every newspaper and magazine in the country.”

True enough, so what did she want?

Apparently, she was about to tell him. “Your assistant, Ginger Marsden, was injured trying to protect you, wasn’t she?”

“Yes,” he said tightly. If Ginger had left him alone, had not run onstage and tackled him, he could have gotten to Trace, maybe saved him. Jackson closed his eyes and saw himself rushing toward Trace and then being knocked into some equipment by Ginger and her falling off the stage. And, worst of all, the security guys hauling him away while he fought them, fought them so hard, to try and save the people he was responsible for. Ironic that he had broken Jimbo’s jaw and dislocated Martin’s shoulder, but he’d escaped with only a few stitches in his arm. He probably couldn’t have saved the others, but Trace had been close; since the first, Trace had always been close by, playing rhythm guitar and singing backup, while Jackson played his own lead guitar. “Ginger suffered a broken leg and a slight concussion. She’s on a beach getting some much needed rest. She’ll be fine.”

“Any chance you’re going to tell me what beach?”

“No.”

“I thought not. Is that where you’ve been these last ten days? With Ginger?”

“Mostly.” That was a lie. He’d flown Ginger to Aruba in his private jet and sent the plane back to L.A. for the rest of his people to take back to Nashville. He’d instructed his accountant to write some big checks and he’d hidden out on a small island off Aruba until the funerals were over.

It was almost as if Carson picked up on his thoughts. “There was a lot of talk about your failure to attend the funerals of your entourage. Some even speculated that you were badly hurt or dead.”

He smiled. “Obviously that was a bit dramatic. Ginger was understandably traumatized. I felt that my place was with her.” Ginger would cut her tongue out before she would tell that he’d hidden to avoid the funerals; any of them would.

“Ginger has been with you since before your first record went gold when you were nineteen. Is it fair to say you look to her as a mother figure?”

This had been a mistake. If there had been anywhere to go, he would have walked out.

“No. Ginger works for me.” Though Ginger was exactly the age his mother would’ve been. And she’d done everything for him, short of wiping his nose. That was over. From here on out, he was wiping his own nose.

“But there is no denying that she’s devoted to you,” Carson persisted.

“I don’t deny it. I deny that she’s a mother figure.”

“Some have speculated that there was at one time a romantic relationship between the two of you.”

“Some have also speculated that aliens descend from outer space on a regular basis to mate with mermaids but that doesn’t make it true.” This was not the first time he’d heard that and it never got any less ridiculous. Funny thing was, he got the feeling Carson knew that. Was she just asking random questions or was this all going somewhere?

His new best friend, the flight attendant, came through with her cart.

“Breakfast!” He popped his tray down. Maybe Carson would get distracted and get on with asking him if he liked grits. Which he did, if they were cooked right.

“Thank you. None for me,” Carson said.

“Not hungry?” Jackson took a sip of his coffee and inspected the omelet to see what was inside.

“I had breakfast on my last flight. An hour ago.”

“Are you going to write down what I’m eating for breakfast?” he asked.

“I hadn’t planned to. I would rather talk about how this fire took you back to a fire you experienced when you were twelve years old.”

Jackson hesitated with his fork halfway to his mouth. Then he stopped. “What makes you think it took me back?”

“How could it not?” Carson said simply, as if she were discussing ducks on a pond or the color of birthday cake icing.

“That was a long time ago.” Coming up on twenty years, in fact.

Carson narrowed her eyes. “Is it ever a long time ago when you lose half your family?”

She had that right. It was yesterday. Last night. This morning.

“They never discovered what caused the fire that night, did they?”

“No. They never did.” That was true, but just the same, Jackson knew.

It had been their last night of vacation at Myrtle Beach. He and the twins were camping out, like they had been allowed to do the previous three years. Beau was supposed to join them for the first time but had gotten sick and been kept inside. They’d done the usual—made s’mores, popped popcorn, and told ghost stories. Like he’d done every year after building the fire, Jim Beauford had admonished his oldest son to make sure the fire was out before they went to bed. Only Jackson hadn’t done it. He’d noticed that ten-year-old Rafe had gotten scared while Gabe was telling “Bloody Bones,” so Jackson had decided to have a little fun. He’d told Gabe to go to bed, ordered Rafe to put out the fire, and followed Gabe into the tent—leaving Rafe alone. When he and Gabe scratched on the side of the tent and moaned, Rafe had run to the tent and scrambled in. Jackson had not even asked his little brother if he was certain the fire was out, let alone checked on it. Worse, later, when he’d smelled the smoke, he’d turned back over and gone back to sleep.

Then some time later, the cries of his mother had woken them. What followed was a blur—the people from the neighboring beach houses gathering, the sirens, and the confusion about where Beau was. But all that had come after the worst nightmare of Jackson’s life—his beautiful, serene mother standing on the balcony holding two-year-old Camille crying, screaming, and begging Gabe to catch the baby—Gabe, the best athlete among them, who could out-throw, outrun, and out-catch anyone. But not that night. Laura Beauford must have known it was the only hope for her baby because she sent her over the rail into Gabe’s waiting arms—but though he reached and reached, Camille landed at his feet. Laura never knew because she had disappeared into the flames by then.

And all because Jackson had disobeyed the last directive his father had given him—his kind father with his blond hair, gentle voice, and lanky limbs, who loved leather-bound books, good bourbon, and the UT Vols, who spent his days teaching history at Vanderbilt University and his nights loving his family.

“What do you think started the fire that night?” Carson asked.

“I have no idea,” Jackson lied.

And as the food he had wanted so badly grew cold and finally efficiently disappeared as they flew over state after state, Carson’s questions went on and on. Jackson answered with grains of truth and barrels of self-preservation. He made jokes with just the right amount of sadness hanging in the background. He shrugged it off when she talked about his reputation for being the “good guy” of superstardom, who had hit it big young because he was determined to take care of his family.

He took no credit for that. How could he?

It was on the jetway that Jackson realized he had no way to get to Beauford Bend, to quiet and solitude. How could he have been so stupid? Ginger always took care of these things.

“Carson, do you have a car here?”

“Of course.”

“Will you drop me at a car dealership?”